She had shocked him again.
“Gutter journalism,” he spat.
“I won’t have anything to do with it. Leave now, or I shall call the police.”
Mrs. Clarke gave a whimper of fear.
“Not the police. No, no, no. I’m afraid of the police.” She peered at the stranger.
“I’m afraid of the police.”
With reason, thought Roz, wondering if the shock of the murders had brought on the dementia. Was that why they had moved away? She picked up her briefcase and handbag.
“I’m no gutter journalist, Mr. Clarke. I’m trying to help Olive.”
“She’s beyond help. We all are.” He glanced at his wife.
“Olive destroyed everything.”
“I disagree.”
“Please go.” The thin reedy voice of the old woman broke in on them.
“I never saw Gwen and Amber that day,” she cried plaintively.
“I lied. I lied, Edward.”
He closed his eyes.
“Oh, God,” he murmured, ‘what did I ever do to deserve this?” His voice vibrated with repressed dislike.
“Which day?” Roz pressed.
But the moment of lucidity, if that is what it was, had passed.
“We’ve been waiting for cakes.”
Irritation and something else relief? passed across his face.
“She’s senile,” he told Roz.
“Her mind’s gone. You can’t rely on anything she says. I’ll show you out.”
Roz didn’t move.
“Which day, Mrs. Clarke?” she asked gently.
“The day the police came. I said I saw them but I didn’t.” She furrowed her brow in perplexity.
“Do I know you?”
Mr. Clarke seized Roz roughly by the arm and manhandled her towards the front door.
“Get out of my house!” he stormed.
“Haven’t we suffered enough at the hands of that family?” He thrust her into the street and slammed the door.
Roz rubbed her arm reflectively. Edward Clarke, in spite of his age, was a good deal stronger than he looked.
She turned the problem in her mind throughout the long drive home. She was caught in the same dilemma that Olive kept posing her, the dilemma of belief. Was Mrs. Clarke telling the truth? Had she lied to the police that day or was her senile recollection faulty? And if she had lied, did it make a difference?
Roz pictured herself in the Poacher’s kitchen, listening to Hal talking about Robert Martin’s alibi.
“We did wonder if he might have killed Gwen and Amber before he went to work and Olive then attempted to dispose of the bodies to protect him, but the numbers didn’t add up. He had an alibi even for that. There was a neighbour who saw her husband off to work a few minutes before Martin himself left. Amber and Gwen were alive then because she spoke to them on their doorstep. She remembered asking Amber how she was getting on at Glitzy. They waved as Martin drove away.”
Mrs. Clarke, thought Roz, it had to be. But how remiss of her not to question that statement before? Was it likely that Gwen and Amber would wave goodbye to Robert when so little love was lost between husband and wife? A sentence from Olive’s statement pierced her thoughts like a sharp knife.
“We had an argument over breakfast and my father left for work in the middle of it.”
So Mrs. Clarke had been telling lies. But why? Why give Robert an alibi when, according to Olive, she saw him as a threat?
“There was a neighbour who saw her husband off to work a few minutes before Martin himself left..
God, but she’d been blind. The alibi was Edward’s.
She phoned Iris in a fever of excitement from a pay phone.
“I’ve cracked it, old thing. I know who did it and it wasn’t Olive.”
“There you are, you see. Always trust your agent’s instincts.
I’ve had a flyer on you with Gerry. He’ll be sick as a parrot about losing. So who did do it?”
“The neighbour, Edward Clarke. He was Robert Martin’s lover. I think he killed Gwen and Amber out of jealousy.”
